Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(78)

“But it was, lad. I had to fall to the bottom of the well and crawl back up to learn it, but Diah save me, I crawled to where I ought to be.” He gestured to the house around him. “I canna imagine life without Bernadette and the bairns, aye? And yet, if you’d asked me a year ago, I’d have said you were mad.”

“What do you suggest, then—that I marry Bernadette?” Aulay asked with a wry smile.

Rabbie laughed. “Donna doubt that there is more to life than what you’ve always known, that’s what I mean to say.”

Rabbie meant well, but the words quietly infuriated Aulay. Rabbie had not lived in anyone’s shadow. “You climbed out of your well onto dry land,” Aulay shot back at him. “It’s a wee bit different for me, is it no’? I canna exist without something to buoy me.”

“You can exist on land,” Rabbie said evenly. “You’re no’ a bloody fish, lad.”

“Where?” Aulay suddenly shouted, casting his arms wide. “Here? With you? At Balhaire? And do what, pray tell?” he said, and slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the cups.

Rabbie was stunned by his outburst.

“Rabbie?” It was Bernadette, come from her room, peering curiously through the door at them.

“Pardon, leannan,” Rabbie said, his eyes fixed on Aulay. “We’ve had a wee bit too much whisky, we have.”

“Hmm,” Bernadette said, and disappeared again.

Rabbie waited until he could no longer hear Bernadette’s footfall, then leaned across the table. “You’ll find your way, Aulay. You’ve somehow forgotten it, or lost it, but there is more to this life than painting on a ship in the middle of nowhere.”

Aulay suddenly surged forward and snatched the whisky bottle from the table. “I’m seven and thirty, Rabbie. There is no more to my life. The sea is all my life has been and I’m to simply put it behind me and find something else to occupy me?” He filled their tots and refused to discuss it further.

He awoke at sunrise with an aching head and the unsettling weariness of another restless night. It felt as if ants were crawling on the inside of him, an uncomfortable feeling that could not be doused, no matter what he did.

Lottie had shadowed his thoughts through the night. As angry as he was, as desperately as he wanted someone to pay for his very dear loss, he also wanted to be near her. It was a heartbreaking, maddening need that ate at him, and he couldn’t stop it.

He recalled her standing before his father, never wavering, honest about what they’d done, and why. She’d looked his father in the eye and put the blame on her own shoulders. She could have done anything else—cried, begged, lied. But she’d stood up stronger than many men he knew. It was another thing to admire about her.

His fury dulled.

Frang met Aulay when he returned to Balhaire. “Your mother bids me tell you that the Mackenzies will dine with guests this evening.”

“What guests?” Aulay asked as he moved to pass the butler.

“The Livingstones, then,” Frang said.

Aulay stopped. He stared at him. “Is my lady mother mad?”

“I’d no’ be at liberty to say, Captain,” Frang said with a bow.

There was no need—Aulay was acutely aware of the answer.

He retreated to his rooms. He wished he had a canvas, something to do with his hands. Unfortunately, his paints had been on board the Reulag Balhaire. He spent a restless day, wandering about the grounds, imagining wandering about every day for the rest of his life. He toyed with the idea of approaching the MacDonalds to run one of their ships with the whisky they were distilling illegally. It was hardly the sort of life he wanted, always sailing one step ahead of the crown...but an experienced captain such as himself could demand a higher wage for such risk.

The idea of having to resort to it, of having no other foreseeable options, left Aulay in a foul mood, his ire stoked again. He was entirely impotent, a man in a desert, stumbling about with no sense of direction, riding a wave of fury and lifelessness.

He dressed for supper in a formal coat and plaid. When he entered the great hall, the atmosphere seemed too festive to him. It felt a wee bit like a celebration. It was anything but a celebration—it was a wake.

Most of the Mackenzies were in the hall, as well as the crew of the Reulag Balhaire. It was the clan’s custom to dine together most evenings in the great hall. All who could come, including friends such as Lizzie MacDonald, a particular favorite of Catriona, who had come from Skye.

The Livingstones came last, gathered together like so many frightened sheep. They caused quite a stir when they entered, as word of the ordeal at sea had spread.

And then there was Lottie. She was dressed in a gold silk gown with tiny seed pearls embroidered down the panels of the mantua and the cuffs of the sleeves. He recognized that gown, and looked at his older sister, Vivienne, with a questioning gaze.

Vivienne smiled prettily and shrugged. “Why no’? After bearing four children, I can no longer wear it. She’s bonny, aye? It looks much finer on her than it ever did on me.”

Bonny was an inadequate word. Ravishing was more apt. Aulay was reminded of why he’d been so bloody dumbstruck when he’d first laid eyes on her.

More people came into the hall, and soon, Aulay could scarcely hear Vivienne speaking to him. He kept his gaze on the crowd below the dais. The Livingstones sat alone, and most of the Mackenzies paid them no heed, other than to cast a dark look in their direction from time to time.